


Let It Be

by Laura_McEwan



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-27
Updated: 2010-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:22:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_McEwan/pseuds/Laura_McEwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recovering from Gunther's assassination attempt, Starsky is struggling with memories from another traumatic time, while Hutch waits patiently for the story to be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let It Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaye Austen Michaels](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kaye+Austen+Michaels).



> Originally published in the 2010 zine "Here With You", a tribute zine to Kaye Austen Michaels.

For KAM, who has taught me more than she probably realizes. ~~~~

* * *

     The rest of the year, I can forget about that day. Just one of several thousand that make up my life, a new one added every morning, even though I lost a whole lot of ’em while I was in the hospital. But I guess getting my life back was worth missing some. But not even the hospital could keep this date away.  
     I’d only been home—well, in Hutch’s place, anyway—for a few weeks. Damn Gunther and his goons. Couldn’t they have timed my assassination better so I could’ve been unconscious and missed it for once?  
     Or dead, and then it wouldn’t matter.  
     Hutch would get really pissed if he heard me talking like that.  
     When I closed my eyes, all the images came hurtling back. So did the sickening smells. The heat of the jungle and the whine and blast of mortars exploding around us.  
     The screams.  
     A gentle squeeze on my knee wrenched me back to the present. I choked back a cry that sounded like I was strangling. I brought my arm up to protect myself, and Hutch caught it.  
     "Starsk, what’s wrong?"  
     I shook my head.  
     "C'mon, Starsk. Hey. Look at me. C'mon." He persisted with that deep, soft voice and wheedling tone, trying to hold me without hurting, but I finally pushed him away. That put a pained look on his face, as if suddenly I didn’t trust him. It wasn’t that. I patted his hand and tried to smile. Finally, he sighed and went to open the screens to let the ocean air blow through the apartment, leaving me alone in the greenhouse with my demons.

* * *

 

The light changed, growing brighter as the morning turned to noon and the sun's heat grew intense. It was an off-rehab day. Hutch hadn’t come back to the greenhouse, not even to bug me about getting out and walking like we do every day. I pretty much forgot about him while the memories of mortar shells crashed around me, but this time my eyes were open, staring into the greenhouse jungle. I knew this place so well that it was a comfort, but still, it made for a pretty true-feeling backdrop for those hellacious memories.  
     Fucking August. But, even so, I felt chilly, and shivered when a touch of a breeze touched my body.  
     Suddenly, an afghan slipped warmly around my shoulders. Hutch drew it forward until I could hold it closed in front of me, and then he knelt to talk to me, his tone gentle. That’s my Hutch. Stoic and understanding and always there, no matter what. He deserved better than to have me treat him like crap in his own home.  
     "What is it, Starsk? Are you hurting again?" One of his hands hovered over me, like he was afraid to touch me but couldn't stop from trying anyway.  
     I sighed, but just shook my head. I couldn't look at him. "No more than usual." And not in the way I knew he was thinking.  
     He stood, walked to the screens and looked out, pulling one leafy vine free from the mesh. "It’s about lunchtime. Did you want to eat out here?"  
     "Not hungry."  
     "Starsk—"  
     It was all too much. The jungle-like quality of the greenhouse, the damp heat in the air, my cold sweat, and dark memories juxtaposed against his gentle insistence. "I said I’m not hungry!" I tried to stand, but a sudden cramp pulled me back down and forward.  
     Hutch moved like lightning, neatly caught me, and held me until it passed. I could feel his pulse under my forehead where it pressed into his neck and I counted the beats up to a hundred, distracting myself from the searing, screaming red pain, before he set me back on the bench. I leaned my head against his chest and twisted his sweat-soaked t-shirt around my fingers, filling my nose with his scent.  
     He was alive.  
     Real.  
     Alive.  
     "Sorry," I mumbled, feeling about five-years-old and two-feet high. I let him go and pulled at the afghan. "And thanks for this."  
     "Buddy, I stood at the door and watched you for a long time. You were a million miles away. Where’d you go?"  
     I sighed again, wishing he'd stop being so damned nice to me, and thought about just curling up on the bench right there and sleeping the rest of the day away until tomorrow, when there'd be a whole new date on the calendar.  
     But I promised. I’ll never break that promise. Ever.  
     "Some place you never had to be, thank God." My voice was all shaky, and I hated that.  
     Hutch sat beside me then, lunch apparently forgotten. "Well, wherever it is, it’s got you pretty tightly wound." He put a hand beneath the afghan over my shoulder and rubbed real careful. Soothing. "Want to talk about it? No one here but me and the plants, and they won't tell. As for me, well…is this a 'who do we trust' moment? Because if it is, we're still me and thee."  
     I picked at the afghan, finding an odd solace in rubbing a nub of wool between my fingertips, like the way a rosary bead would feel for a Catholic. Hutch had always been my confessor, the absolver of my sins, the protector of my secrets.  
     But I’d never told anyone about that day.  
     I finally noticed the ghostly shade that came every year. He was hovering nearby. He smiled and nodded, like he thought I should tell Hutch. Maybe I could.  
     I blinked a few times, hard, staring at the colors and pattern of the crocheted blanket. I cry every fuckin’ time this date rolls around, but I’m usually by myself in my own place. I took as deep a breath as my body would let me, and felt Hutch’s hand tighten on my shoulder.  
     "August 14, 1966." Thirteen years. It felt like it’d passed in a blink of an eye, yet it was such a long, long time ago.  
     "What happened?" Hutch’s voice sounded hushed, respectful, and fearfully curious. It's the detective in him, needing to know the truth but careful in the asking. Particularly when it comes to me.  
     "I’ll tell ya. But first, can you get me a beer?"  
     "You shouldn’t be drinking, babe."  
     "I know, and I won't. I’ll only have a sip, I promise. You’ll have to drink the rest for me. Would ya?"  
     I saw the shade nod again. He liked the idea.  
     "Sure. Okay. Anything else?"  
     "Matches. Ashtray. Your guitar."  
     "My guitar?"  
     I looked up at him then and felt bad about the worry in his eyes. "I just need ya to play for me. Will ya?"  
     He just nodded and disappeared.  
     See, thing is, Hutch loves me. And I love him. We’ve been tight ever since we met. I knew he’d be here for me while I told this story. And I figured his music—well, his music is so much a part of him that no matter how deep I might get into these memories, I could hang onto Hutch's music to sing me out of the jungle.  
     He brought back everything I’d asked for, setting it out on a tray with a big glass of water, my pills, and some leftover spaghetti. I still wasn’t hungry--my stomach was in knots from seeing my visiting shade--but it was nice of Hutch. If he ever got out of the police business, he’d make someone a great mom. Or nurse. He’s got the gentlest hands.  
     And then those hands started to make the gentlest music on that old guitar. It wasn't anything I recognized, just some pretty notes strung together.  
     I took a drink of water, got up real slow so I didn't hurt myself again, and walked over to one of his tall green plants. Leaning my face into the leaves, I was gone.

 

 **Vietnam**   
**August 14, 1966**

 

Paul Cole was a smart kid, really. Just young. I can’t remember where he was from now. Might’ve been California. He had that beach-blond hair. Hutch’s got that too, and he’s from Minnesota, so who knows? At any rate, this kid was a lot like Radar on M*A*S*H—cute and young and innocent, and so naturally smart. He got assigned to my unit and attached himself to my side like a burr, even though I was his sergeant. He told me once I reminded him of his older brother, and frankly, he reminded me a bit of Nick, lots of bravado but really scared inside. I didn’t mind; it was kinda nice to have something like family around.  
     Paul was really handy with a gun. He had these delicate-looking hands that seemed like they couldn’t hold up anything more than a paintbrush, but he was killer on targets. And even though he was blond, he had these caramel-brown eyes that took in everything. Seriously, this kid didn’t miss a thing, sight-wise or shooting-wise.  
     It probably sounds weird that I would notice the color of his eyes, but he noticed mine first. He ribbed me about my having dark hair and skin but blue eyes, and I ribbed him back about not having blue eyes to go with all that blondness, and how maybe we got each others’ eyes instead. It was part of that family thing. Just easy and comfortable.  
     I wasn’t maybe three-years older than him, but since I was a sergeant, and he was only a private, so he was still "kid" to me. I’d seen too much by then, and I felt way older than twenty-three.  
     So, he was two months in and we were out on a follow-up tracking mission for the Marines’ Operation Prairie in the middle of the worst August heat. The humidity was so heavy it felt like we were tryin’ to breathe underwater, and I kept worrying that the radio batteries would corrode from all the moisture. Steam would rise up from the ground and the fighting had trampled so much of the plant life that the rotting leaves made the most godawful stink. Combine that with the stench of unwashed, sweating soldiers and it’s a wonder Charlie didn’t just sniff us out.  
     Charlie knew how to hide—it was their jungle and they knew its secrets—but it seemed like they were gone from the quadrant of jungle we were patrolling. Marines reported finding something like a hundred and seventy dead VC, and believed the living had cleared out, but we were chosen to make sure.  
     Paul was at my elbow, my self-elected right-hand man. The rest of the unit didn't care. It was like they knew, too— Paul was supposed to be by my side. It just seemed right.  
     He was one of the bravest kids ever, too. He could take a deep breath and draw in this strength from somewhere. He inspired everyone else, even when things got sticky. Everyone looked out for him because he was so busy looking out for Charlie for the rest of us. Eagle-eyed kid.  
     Anyway, that day.  
     We'd headed out right before dawn, and I was pretty confident it was just us out there. and I wanted to get our sweep done before the sun fried us or the jungle boiled us. Maybe we could get some quiet time later—keeping soldiers on edge for days makes ’em more than edgy. More like reckless and ready to shoot at the wind for moving a leaf. Even I was in need of a break.  
     The sunrise was beautiful that morning. Ironic that it was probably due to village fires far from us. Still—the reds and pinks were vibrant, really bright, and we all stopped to admire it.  
     I glanced over at the kid. He was smiling and started to talk about how his mom used to wake him up early just to see sunrises when he suddenly jumped back and knocked me down hard in the dirt—and then the world blew up.  
     I don't know how long I was out, but eventually I became aware of light. And pain.  
     My brain felt scrambled and I had to push through confusion to identify why I hurt and where. Then I realized a body was on top of me and something was dripping in my eye.  
     Another explosion blew earth over us, clods and leaves showering us with muddy, sticky pieces. The report was so loud that I screamed. I could taste blood and knew it wasn't mine.  
     Screamin' seemed to release the fear enough for my mind to start workin' again. I rolled the body off me and started crawling for the brush, dragging him along as I hunted for my men, spitting and cursing the whole way.  
     As fast as it began, the firefight stopped. The sounds echoed then faded away. I sat back against a tree, counting heads and strugglin' to place names with muddied faces, noting who was walking and who was being carried or dragged. Charlie seemed to have moved on—another explosion rattled us but it was further away, and then a second, even further. I breathed a little easier.  
     Something moved against me and I realized I still had hold of whomever it was that had been on top of me. He groaned, and I heard, "S-Sergeant?" in the most pitiful whisper. "Hurts."  
     I pulled him over and laid his head in my lap. "Hey, Paulie," I crooned, using my fingers to wipe the muck and leaves from his face while two other men, one a medic, started checking him for wounds. "You just relax."  
     Langston, the medic, sucked in a breath and stared up at me from where he'd been probing Paul's belly, his brown eyes wide. He shook his head.  
     I forced a smile and looked back at the boy in my arms. "Hey, Paulie, you're gonna be fine, just fine."  
     He tried to smile, a sickly little half-grin, his teeth white through the mud that still clung to his face. "Sure, Sarge," he breathed, and coughed a little. It hurt him, and his hand reached for his belly. I caught it and held it.  
     "We gotta get you out of here, kid," I told him, squeezing his hand. I looked up at the rest of my men. "You guys all right?"  
     Two had some minor injuries, and the rest had gotten lucky. Langston bandaged up Paulie best he could and the fellas took turns carrying him by his armpits and legs through the jungle. I took the first carry so I could keep talking to him, not even noticing that I was limping. Langston made me stop after a while and took Paulie himself, but I walked beside him, holding his hand and talking the whole way.  
     Thinking back, all that noise could have brought Charlie right to us, but all I knew was that my buddy, who was practically my partner, was hurt really bad. I felt it was my fault. He'd saved my life, knocking me down when that shell hit. Wrenching my knee, that was all I got from it.  
     We got to camp and put him in the hospital tent. I told one of the guys to call up a hospital copter on the radio, and knelt down next to Paulie.  
     "Hey, kid. How you holding up?"  
     His eyes were droopy, like he could hardly keep them open, but he tried to sound strong. "I’m still here, I think."  
     I smiled. Sense of humor hanging on, so I hadn't lost him yet.  
     "Too many people," he said suddenly, and tried to look around the room.  
     About six of our guys were hovering, helping the other two who'd been hurt or staring down at Paulie on the cot.  
     "Want me to send 'em out?" I asked, putting my mouth real close to his ear.  
     He just nodded and his eyes closed. "You stay," he whispered, his hand reaching for mine.  
     I was afraid to grip it too hard, like I'd hurt him if I did. "Everyone clear out," I ordered.  
     Paulie gave this little smile when he felt the guys touch him as they left.  
     "OK, kid, they're gone. It's just you and me."  
     He opened his eyes as big as he could. "Sarge...I wanted to say…before I die…."  
     "Paulie, you ain't gonna—"  
     "Sarge. I know I am. It's okay." He gave me this little watery grin, and I couldn't help but grin back. "What I wanna say…ask, really…" He stopped, licked his lips. "Could I have some water?"  
     I knew that wasn't his real question, but grabbed my canteen and held it to his lips. When he was done he sank into the pillow.             
     "Thanks. I wanted…wanted… Sarge, would you…kiss me?"  
     I probably stared at him for longer than was comfortable, but in the end—I did what he asked. I couldn't deny his last request, you know? It was only then I realized he'd fallen for me.

* * *

I turned away from the jungle—both the memory and the greenhouse—and noticed the shade's glow was a lot brighter now. Then I faced Hutch again.  
     Loyal as ever, he kept his fingers moving, pulling music from the strings. His eyes were on me, though—worried, thoughtful.  
     I moved closer to him and could feel my hands shaking. "He looked a lot like you."  
     Hutch didn't stop playing, didn't say anything, just nodded, waiting.  
     I love this man.  
     I gestured at the table where he'd put the items I'd requested. The beer bottle was sweating; a little puddle of water collecting around its base. I ran my finger through the water, flicking drops at Hutch, making him smile. I picked up the bottle and held it up as if in a toast.  
     "To Paulie, who taught me more in one night than anyone ever had before." And tonight, I thought, I'll apply what I've learned.  
     The shade smiled, glowed gold for a moment, and then bowed his head.  
     I came closer to Hutch and put my fingers over the strings, stopping his music. "I've got something to tell ya."  
     Hutch, my partner, my very best friend in the whole world, laid his guitar across his lap. "I'm listening." He almost seemed…ready. If that makes any sense.  
     Still holding the beer bottle, I went awkwardly to my knees in front of him. He kept gazing at me with that soft, gentle, tender-guy look he gets.  
     I took a drink, and then handed the bottle to him, as I'd promised. He took it and took a long pull before holding it up. "To Paul. And to you."  
     "Me?" My voice squeaked.  
     "Yeah, you. I'm proud of you. You didn't give up. You didn't just roll over and—and—die on me."  
     His eyes got a little wet and something inside me both melted and flared. I leaned in over the guitar and kissed him quick. Then again. Longer this time.  
     He didn't pull away. Instead, he pressed his lips against mine, so gentle, so…real. Slowly I knelt back and Hutch's sweet, soft lips curved into a loving smile.  
     "What?" I asked, and the shade beside me looked like he was laughing.  
     "I liked that."  
     "You did?"  
     "Yep. I want to try that again."  
     He put the guitar down, and this time _he_ leaned in and brought his arms around me, too. Good thing, because I felt like I was going to fly away, right up through the roof of the greenhouse, the way he kissed me. He held me steady, just like always, and I could feel the wet beer bottle in his hand press against my back.  
     The Paulie-shade danced around us in sparkles of gold and silver, but I had to close my eyes because it was all too much.  
     When Hutch was done turning me into a puddle of jelly, he settled back and took another drink. I hovered somewhere above him, gazing at his face, marveling at the color of his eyes.  
     "Starsk?"  
     "Hm?" He sounded like he was far away, but he was right here, in front of me.  
     "What are the matches for?" He acted like all this was normal, and that made me feel safe. Like he wasn't going to run away. Like everything was just fine.  
     I pulled a bandanna from my back pocket. It had been Paulie's. "Every year I put this on my head and drink to Paulie. I light a match and let it burn down. It's quick and short, like his life was. But…somehow, now, I don't think I need to anymore."  
     Hutch put the big ashtray on the floor and I laid the bandanna in it. He handed me the matchbook, and I lit one.  
     The fabric took a while to burn, the way Paulie died. But once it caught well, it burned quickly, just like Paulie's life sped towards the end.  
     _"Promise me something, Sarge?" he'd asked me, his voice barely there. I had to lean so close, I may as well have kissed him again.  
     "Anything, Paulie. Anything."  
     He smiled, so sad. Just a little quirk in the corner of his mouth, but it said so much.  
     "Love," he finally said. "Don't be shy like me. Love with all your heart. Tell them—whoever it is you find."  
     I blinked, because my eyes were wet, and I agreed as I kissed him again, and he died, my mouth still on his.  
     _"I promised him, Hutch."

Hutch put his big, gentle hand on my cheek. "Promised what?" he asked, in a voice so loving, so warm and comforting, I just wanted to cry.  
     "That I'd tell you I loved you."  
     "I know you do."  
     "No, you don't know—" I started to argue, but he shushed me with a finger to my lips.  
     "Yes, I do. Because I feel the same way, Starsk. Have, for a long time now."  
     My thoughts cast back into of the last year. We were estranged, arguing all the time, and then there was Kira...  
     "It took Gunther to bring things back into focus for me, Starsk. Don't dwell on the rest. I think we had to have that time, to be angry and pissy, to really look at our lives…so we could know what we really had. And the rest? We've got to let it go. Let it be."  
     I know my mouth was hanging open, because he used one finger to push my jaw back up. Then he stroked my cheek.  
     "Ah, Starsk. Don't you believe me? Listen. Remember that day at Laura's house, when Hector was holding Laura and Hannah hostage? Do you remember how we both had been in just shit moods that day?"  
     I nodded. We'd been griping for the last few weeks, getting on each others' nerves. I remembered feeling lost and lonely, and then remembered how all that animosity vanished when it came down to Hutch's life.  
     "Starsky, when I saw you in that mirror, I knew then that there was more to it—more to my restlessness and grouchiness. That was the day when I knew I was falling in love with you—but had no clue how to say it or what to do about it. Because I was so damned glad to see you, and wanted you there with me so badly. I was so scared that Hector would win and end one of us or both...and dammit, when Laura hit you with that pie, it was all I could do to not pin you to the floor and lick it off your face right there."

Paulie's shade turned pink, laughing. I felt myself turn just as pink.  
     Hutch, looking so soft and romantic, took my face in both his hands and leaned in close. "I love you, David Starsky. From deep in my heart, and for a long time, I have been in love with you."  
     Paulie's shade turned somersaults, but I don't think Hutch noticed the stardust floating down on his hair.  
     I started trembling and next thing I knew, Hutch had me on the bench with him, practically in his lap, whispering in my ear. He might have been teary, too. "I love you, I love you, I love you. Always have, always will, won't ever leave you, won't ever let you go."  
     Paulie stepped right up to us and put his hands on our heads. I felt it. I don't think Hutch did. Then Paulie said without making a sound, "Let it be. Let him love you. Love him back." He waved goodbye to me then, and an oval of light appeared behind him, grew bigger, and swallowed him up. A few stray sparkles fell onto the plants, but they didn't seem to mind.  
     The last thing I remember before falling asleep, relaxed and mellow against my soon-to-be-lover, was Hutch, singing to me.

  
" _And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree,  
There will be an answer, let it be.  
For though they may be parted _

_There is still a chance that they will see,  
There will be an answer. Let it be._

 _Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.  
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be._

 _And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me.  
Shine until tomorrow, let it be."_   
**  
**

**Author's Note:**

> With much thanks to Keri and Flamingo for all their help. Original art in the zine was done by Enednoviel; if it's placed online I will link to it.


End file.
